...and missing Lavinia and naps in the sunshine!
my walls are empty and a minty green color. my canvas of old polaroids leans in the corner on the floor. my old ticket stubs are yellowed (making death cab look ages old). i'm sleeping with white sheets and my old duck blanket. in my closet hang only the clothes i brought with me from seattle. i've so many literal and not-so-literal blank canvases in my possession right now. i've got so many ideas in my head right now. i've got exactly what i need, once again.
Sunny day in December. A beautiful one.
"Building a museum case and filling it with types of mussels is one way of knowing mussels; but on the shore, a mussel leads to a crab or a curious stone, which leads to another thing and eventually leads back to mussels, which is another and perhaps a more far-reaching way to know mussels. The sea that always seems like a metaphor, but one that is always moving, cannot be fixed, like a heart that is like a tongue that is like a mystery that is like a story that is like a border that is like something altogether different and like everything at once. One thing leads to another, and this is the treasure that always runs through your fingers and never runs out. "
--Rebecca Solnit, Storming the Gates of Paradise: Landscapes for Politics
Love shone not from her face only, but from all her limbs, as if it were some liquid in which she had just been bathing.
I've thought all day about Sarah Smith, and I want to follow suit.
I'll take bits and pieces of what Lewis said about her, the pieces I think most pertinent to my point and show you what I mean.
"Some kind of procession was approaching us, and the light came from the persons who composed it. If I could remember their singing and write down the notes, no man who read that score would ever grow sick or old. Between them went musicians: and after these a lady in whose honour all this was being done. Only partly do I remember the unbearable beauty of her face.
'Is it?...is it?' I whispered to my guide.
'Not at all,' said he. 'It's someone ye'll never have heard of. Her name was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green.'
'She seems to be...well, a person of particular importance?'
'Aye. She is one of the great ones. Ye have heard that fame in this country and fame on Earth are two quite different things.'
'And who are all these young men and women on each side?'
'They are her sons and daughters.'
'She must have had a very large family, Sir.'
'Every young man or boy that met her became her son--even if it was only the boy that brought the meat to her back door. Every girl that met her was her daughter.'
'Isn't that a bit hard on their parents?'
'No. There are those that steal other people's children. But her motherhood was of a different kind. Those on whom it fell went back to their natural parents loving them more. Few men looked on her without becoming, in a certain fashion, her lovers. But it was the kind of love that made them not less true, but truer, to their own wives.'
I looked at my Teacher in amazement.
'Yes,' he said. 'It is like when you throw a stone into a pool, and the concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end? Redeemed humanity is still young, it has hardly come to its full strength. But already there is joy enough in the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life.'"
To be walking, breathing, speaking love. Truly as I was created to be. Truly as an Image-bearer called forth from clay to movement. To move men to love their wives better. To remind children why they adore their parents. Oh, but I can't do this on my own.
Monitor my thoughts, oh Lord, and tend to my heart.